


implied

by queseyo



Series: illunius [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: 5 Times, Canon Era, F/M, Implied Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-08 09:09:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6848371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queseyo/pseuds/queseyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Words they shouldn't have said.</p><p>(five meetings better forgotten by history.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	implied

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the prompt "things said through your teeth."

1\. His last name

Sparks didn’t fly the night they met. Sparks were for Alexander— _always_ Alexander—a comma snuck here, the temptation (dare she call it sin?) implied in those smiles across the ballroom floor. Alexander’s hand on her waist, a inkstain pressed into her skin on accident, a memory of what never could’ve been. (She’s fine with that.)

She recognizes the magenta suit, remembers him stepping into the room. Joking with Eliza about his pretentiousness, how he reeked of money. She leaves the champagne flute on one of the tables, fingers trace the pink satin of her dress, and realizes she has no right to mock him. As she looks away from Alexander and Eliza dancing, he nods in her direction, a smirk curling on his lips.

“Mr. Jefferson,” She holds out her hand, doesn’t wait for him to lean down and kiss it. He takes her hand in his. “Angelica Schuyler. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

His grip is like iron. (She can get used to it.)

2\. His first name

She has to dig into his hair to prevent from crying out his name. He pushes up her skirts, impatient and rough all in one, a hurricane of sweat and champagne infused thoughts. She whines, still sober enough to use his surname as she asks for _more,_   _please_. (It’s not begging, she convinces herself, she won’t stoop that low for _him._ )

His name rolls over her tongue, slurred and heavy, weighing her down. She collapses, sinking deep into the pillows, satisfied for the night. There will be more of this, his long fingers taking his time with her corset, the low drawl in his words, her hands gripping his hips. Her nails raking down his back, praise sung to the stars thanking them for such a gift, the kind of chaos she had dreamed of having with Alexander finally becoming reality.

When morning comes, she will bite the inside of her cheek until she tastes blood, will dig her nails hard into her palms so they ache for days. His smirk from last night will resurface in her mind, a reminder that this time he’s won. She will laugh at the irony, how she believed she had the upper hand when they were introduced, the way she matched his grip with her own.

She won’t be that naive again.

3\. Come to Monticello

She arrives in the spring. How fitting, the flowers sprung as if waiting just for her. She spends the ride with the document clutched to her chest, the rush of adrenaline urges her to get out of the carriage, run up the stairs only to shove the document in his face. _Would you look at that,_  she’d hiss, _it seems we too are created equal_.

Her copy of the _Declaration of the Rights of Women_ has become crumpled over the weeks. She underlined passages with the flick of her quill, ink stains on the paper where she pressed too hard, fully agreeing with the women in France. Olympe de Gouges had spoken out, something she should’ve done with Jefferson the night they met.

He doesn’t come down to greet her, waits by the door as she steps out and climbs the few steps, the _Declaration_ burning against her chest. He cocks an eyebrow at her as she hands it to him, smile bright and sharp, matching the smirks he gives her. He turns on his heel, the 'follow me’ motion clear in the way he sneaks back into his house, down the hall.

She finds herself with her head in his lap, her slippers kicked off, legs stretched across the entire length of the couch. She reads passages of her _Declaration_ , quotes Locke and Voltaire to him in an attempt to get him to talk. He wraps a strand of her hair around his finger, for once keeps silent as she expresses her opinion, mocks his written work and suggests how it should be improved.

Angelica lifts her head, brushes her lips over his, asking for something, anything than this torturous silence. His hand leaves her hair, cups her face and keeps it there, dark eyes staring back at her own. She had expected a hand on the small of her back, pushing her into place as his lips tear into hers, the same cycle they’ve had for months. Instead she gets a sigh leave his mouth, a shiver runs down her spine as the air between them shifts. He hesitates— _Jefferson_ , _her_ Thomas, hesitate? Impossible—Angelica can tell he wants this, wants a love that can be shown off to the world, another prize in the game of life.

She lets him kiss her, in this library filled with novels of almost loves, politics, and secrets. She expects sparks, just like Alexander, and when she pulls away gets muted stars, collapsing into themselves and crumbling away. She can’t stand this fake perfection, the almost romance, knows she wants _something_ , knows it isn’t what Thomas wishes for them to be.

Angelica plans on ending this once and for all.  

4\. I love you

They are not destined to last. Those three words slips from his mouth, burn Angelica’s lips, and coat Thomas’ tongue with ash. She doesn’t ask for an apology, pushes past the taste of burnt ash, and kisses him harder. She bites at his lip, the sharp tang of blood like heaven to her, an anchor in the mess of this affair. This ends tonight, not loud like cannon fire and the smell of gunpowder in the air, but soft, worn and taunt heartstrings finally cut apart by Fate.

She yanks her lips away, spits out the blood as if it stings—it does, sets her heart ablaze, makes it cry out in pain—and unclenches her fingers from his linen shirt. He leans back, eyebrows raised in shock. She waits for him to blink and come back to her, pull her down into the mattress and fuck her until she can no longer scream. When he doesn’t, she speaks, tone firm.

“Thomas,” She pauses. “Leave.”

The door closes behind him. She doesn’t pick up her pile of clothes, and nestles under the sheets as if sleep were the only thing to ease this pain. (Perhaps, years ago, it would’ve.)

5\. Goodbye

Neither of them say it. Whether out of fear to jinx the future or for personal reasons, Angelica never figures out. She folds her clothes, checks the latches of her trunk, makes sure she’s locked away every memory, every bit of Monticello away. She waits at the foot of the carriage, that fluttering feeling in her heart returning, begging her to stay a little longer, even if it just to please her impossible dreams. She holds his gaze as he walks down the stairs, a stack of papers in one hand.

“Mr. Jefferson,” She gives the same curt nod he gave her months ago at the ball. He holds out the papers, and she catches the name of the title before she takes it from his grasp, feels a stinging sensation pass through her fingertips as their hands meet for a last time.

“Ms. Schuyler,” He doesn’t help her into the carriage (he didn’t meet her at bottom of the stairs), and she climbs in herself, papers and dignity still hers to control, still something he can’t have. She’ll be satisfied knowing he will never have her. (The pang in her chest is small, and as the carriage pulls away, she breathes her own sigh of relief.)

* * *

She burns her copy of the _Declaration of the Rights of Woman_.  

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi! [tumblr](http://autumni.tumblr.com)


End file.
